Remember, It's The Winners Write

To Be Closed From Everything, And Yet To Feel, To Think...this Is The Truth Of Hell, Stripped Of Its Gaudy Medievalisms. This Loss Of Contact.

The Right Circumstances Sometimes Happen Of Their Own Accord, Slyly, Without Fanfare, Without Warning. Layman's Alchemy. . . . The Magic Of Everyday Things.

In My Dreams I Gorge On Chocolates, I Roll In Chocolates, And Their Texture Is Not Brittle But Soft As Flesh, Like A Thousand Mouths On My Body, Devouring Me In Fluttering Small Bites. To Die Beneath Their Tender Gluttony Seems The Culmination Of Every Temptation I Have Ever Known.

I Have An Advanced Degree In Procrastination And Another One In Paranoia.

Garden Work Clears The Mind.